


Siren Song

by Calicy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1312738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calicy/pseuds/Calicy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleanor learns many things from her mother but the most important is this: the coin is the only power Nassau recognizes. </p><p>Some event pre-canon. Slight AU where Max leaves Nassau after the second episode and Eleanor stays to capture the Urca with Flint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siren Song

“Say hello Eleanor,” Mother says. Her voice was firm but not harsh. It wasn’t a command but she fully expected her daughter to listen, as most did when faced with that tone. Eleanor tried for years to mimic her mother’s timbre but never to any degree of success.

 

“Hello,” Eleanor whispers before burying her face in her mother’s dress once more.

 

Iris Guthrie clicks her tongue, stroking her child’s hair. She says to the plantation manager who’s nodding sympathetically, “Don’t know where she gets this shyness from.”

 

The plantation manager pulls a thin stalk of sugar cane from a nearby box, squats low, and says to Eleanor, “Want a taste? Sweet as candy, I promise.”

 

In response, Eleanor takes two fistfuls of her mother’s skirt and presses her face against Iris’ thigh. Her mother smiles at the man before grasping Eleanor’s hands until she is forced to release her mother’s dress. Then she pushes her daughter forwards to face their associate. “Be nice Eleanor,” Mother says, then adds in a low tone that Eleanor can barely comprehend, in the language Mother learned in finishing school that she teaches to Eleanor along with the maths, astronomy, and whatever other subject she can find books on,“Soyez poli.”

 

Face hot, Eleanor reluctantly pulls away from Iris, still gripping her skirt, and reaches out her hand. The plantation manager cuts a small piece and carefully shaves the skin from the strange food before handing it to her. She puts the whole piece in her mouth and chews. The texture is fibrous but when she crushes it between her teeth, she tastes a sweet juice. The man was right: it is sweet like the candy they had back in London. She gnaws on the substance and smiles at him around a full mouth.

 

He smiles back, pinching her cheeks, leaving a smudge of grease on her pale skin, “I’ll have the shipment down by the docks sundown Missus Guthrie. Should be out and on its way to distributor by dawn.”

 

Mother thanks him, smiling. That was another thing Eleanor envies about Iris: Mother could smile and make demands at the same time. Eleanor never could do the same.

 

They begin walking home. Father bought them a carriage but Mother almost never uses it. It get stuck in the sand too easily. The fibers left from the sugar cane aren’t sweet anymore and Eleanor spits them out before raising her arms, silently instructing Iris to pick her up but Mother refuses, “You’re a big girl now Eleanor. You must walk on your own.”

 

Eleanor grabs Iris’ hand, digging her heels into the sand. Iris slows.

 

To distract her, Iris points towards a nearby beach they often visit together, “Look. Remember when we visited and you were too scared to wade by yourself?”

 

Eleanor remembers. Mother had held her tightly by her shoulders as they walked into the surf. The tide, as it tugged forcefully on Eleanor’s calves, had been intimidating. But Mother had been unrelenting, keeping her daughter in place until the tide pulled back and Eleanor could see the tide wasn’t dangerous if one stood strong.

 

Iris watches her daughter for a moment and then, unexpectedly, swoops down and picks Eleanor up. “One day you will be too big for me to carry,” she promises.

 

Eleanor sinks into her mother’s arms, wrapping her arms and legs tightly around Iris, burying her face in her mother’s neck.

 

“Je ne peux pas être ferme avec vous,” Iris says, sighing. She rubs a circle on Eleanor’s back, “Je prie le costume de suivi dans le monde.”

 

Their current home is a half-finished room above the tavern Mother has been building in the center of town. Father disapproves of his wife and child living right in the midst of the pirates, whores, and runaway criminals but the house he bought them, far away from town on sand by the water, could easily be washed away in a storm and he is in Boston and his say in the matter is insignificant.

 

Mother also choose to live above the tavern because it was close to her other projects: the trading post, the marketplace in the center of town, the stores and inn. Father rolled his eyes at those ventures too.

 

“Why don’t you go and play with them?” Mother suggests when they turned the corner onto their street. She is referring to the gaggle of children chasing each other on the end of the block.

 

But Eleanor, feeling the impulse to hide again, shakes her head.

 

Iris gives her a half smile, “No? Alright then. Go to your swing until I call you. Mother has a visitor.”

 

It was then that Eleanor saw the black horse tied to the post. It was Johanne. Eleanor held fast to her mother’s hand. She wasn’t old enough to fully understand but she knew Johanne was the reason the neighbors whispered and men in the tavern smiled too much at Iris and women gave her dirty looks.

 

“Fuck them all,” Mother said once when she noticed Eleanor looking at her after a particularly daring group of men made an obscene gesture towards her.

 

Even now, Iris pulls away, in spite of Eleanor’s protests.

 

Grudgingly, Eleanor retreats to her swing which hangs from a thick rafter by the porch. Normally she would try to fly high, even if it made her heart pound, because that’s what Mother would want but she can’t bring herself to today. Instead she sits, rocking side to side, tracing a design into the sand, trying not to hear the sounds coming from Mother’s room.

 

The knot deep inside Eleanor is back but she doesn’t bother Mother with it.

.

.

.

Eleanor reads about it years later, in a legal book, while trying to find ways to circumnavigate British trade law without getting arrested.

 

Paterfamilia. The (Male) head of the house. It was a standard passed from the times of the Roman Empire to day Father decided to divorce Mother. It was a simple standard really: to the patriarch, everything.

 

Father’s announcement came suddenly. He was home from one of his many trips, calmly eating the dinner the servants had made when he announced he would be dissolving his marriage. He gave Mother two options: leave quietly or don’t leave quietly and suffer.

 

Part of Eleanor knew Father expected Mother to leave that night, penniless with barely a possession in the world. When she didn’t immediately do so, he was perplexed. Then, assuming she wanted the businesses she had worked so hard to build in Nassau, he grew furious.

 

“There is nothing for you here anymore,” He had seethed.

 

But he had been wrong twice. Mother hadn’t cared about the tavern or the plantations or even her jewels and clothes. She had wanted Eleanor.

 

And when Father learned this, knowing he could take everything from Mother and the law would support him, denied her even that. He had lost his reputation and that was all that mattered.

 

“Tell that man to enjoy his whore,” he said. Then, because Iris Guthrie did not cry, she began to yell, using her fists to get her point across. In the end, Father had had to order his men to take her away, without even a goodbye to her child.

 

Eleanor had been put to bed before the conversation began but had move to hid in a cabinet underneath the stairs. She tries to run to Mother but Father grabs Eleanor and holds her tight so she can only watch Iris leave.

 

Iris, seeing her daughter, composes herself slightly, “Don’t be afraid Eleanor. You will survive. I know this.” She smiles and Eleanor feels a little relief. If Mother is smiling, this cannot be bad.

 

Father jerks his head, annoyed, and the men pull Iris into the darkness.

 

Father stands in the entryway, watching her leave. He does not look at Eleanor. He rarely feels the need to. When he speaks through, his words are for her, “People must live with their choices.”

 

The knot is so tight now Eleanor is certain she will die.

.

.

.

“Pretty,” the prostitute notes, reaching across the bar to stroke her cheek. Eleanor freezes, hands pausing in their work cleaning cups. Her heart is pounding. The prostitute might think Eleanor is pretty (somehow) but the prostitute herself is beautiful with long lashes, thick curly brown hair, and green eyes.  

 

The prostitute’s hand hovers over her cheek, her palm gently stroking flushed skin. A patron behind the bar Eleanor is tending shouts, “That prude’s clamped up tight, Val! Ya ain’t getting a coin from her!”

 

Eleanor slaps the prostitute's hand away and rushes to go fill another customer’s order. There is a woman who usually tends the bar at night but she’s nowhere to be found and Eleanor can’t trust anyone else to do the job. It’s their last source of income in Nassau. Father lost their last plantation three years ago. Now he’s off begging for an allowance from Eleanor’s grandfather although there is no doubt in Eleanor’s mind that he will omit the fact that he’s renting half the tavern to a brothel owner. Losing the tavern would crush Eleanor because if Mother were here, it would crush her too.

 

The prostitute watches her long into the night and when dawn is arriving on the horizon, she pulls Eleanor into an empty room, free of charge.

 

It is perfect. Everything Eleanor wants. She never sees the woman again but that’s fine too.

.

.

.

She commits herself to each business her Father tries to build. Most fail though not because of any fault of Eleanor’s. Her father chooses terrible men, idiots mostly who happen to be English, to oversee his doings, runs off to the Americas to pretend Nassau doesn’t exist, then seems surprised when it all falls to shit. He’s not the one angry customers come to threaten in the night or the one who sees their property being destroyed by jilted clients. By the time he begins doing business with the pirates, Eleanor is old enough to handle things all on her own. She dedicates everything to the trading company and, after some rough patch (to put it lightly) and many mistakes stemming from Eleanor’s ignorance, it being to thrive. With her miniscule share of the profits, Eleanor finishes the haunting skeletons of her Mother’s projects. The marketplace thrives almost instantly but the trading post and the inn take time. It does not bother Eleanor. She pushes and prods them along as if they were younger siblings and she is teaching them to walk.

 

It is gratifying in ways Eleanor could never have even imagined. Nassau makes her proud. If she put the right people in the right place, it thanked her. If she exacted her skills in negotiating, it grew before her eyes. Her choices had weight. Her success was measurable.

 

Her father doesn’t see the correlation between Eleanor’s involvement and the company’s success. Eleanor nearly grinds her teeth to the gums when she learns her father is sending someone to watch over the new trading business.

 

His name is Mr. Scott and he is a quiet man, which is good for him. Eleanor is ready to push him out a window when he first arrives and the only thing preventing her from doing so is his neutral mien when they are first introduced. Father spend a week in Nassau, teaching Mr. Scott all the things Eleanor already knows and does herself, then he leaves like a fart in the wind.

 

Mr. Scott does not say a word. Not even when Eleanor finds him outside her room the morning after father leaves. He simply follows Eleanor as she goes about her day.   

 

The sun hasn’t risen outside so Eleanor begins doing inventory. Mr. Scott silently looks over her notes after she’s done but doesn’t correct her figures or even comment on her terrible handwriting. A dozen ship schedules have been delivered so Eleanor goes over those next, dropping them one by one next to her on the table, writing down what hauls she is interested in, ignoring Mr. Scott when he reaches over to read them. By the time someone delivers breakfast, he is staring openly at her.

 

She tolerates it - for a short time - but finally says, her voice sharp, “What?”

 

Mr. Scott’s eyes do not wavering, “He made it seem like you were a child.”

 

Eleanor turns back to her work, demeanor unchanged, but thereafter she hands each paper directly to Mr. Scott.

.

.

.

Contrary to popular rumors, she pursues Vane. She is surprised by her lust (and even she can tell that’s what it is) for him. Her tastes usually lean more towards women, especially the prostitutes so readily available in Nassau who give so much and ask so little. Still, she’s intrigued enough to investigate it further.

 

Vane isn’t even slightly opposed to her when she moves closer to him one day in her office, less than a week after he brought her the plunder of the captain who had refused her services, but she is more than a little surprised when minutes later she finds herself sprawled across her desk, Vane’s hands creeping up her legs to the junction where her flesh is already burning. In the blink of an eye, he is gripping her hips, driving into her while all she can do is whimper.  

 

Eleanor is not a delicate flower in bed. She is always satisfied with Vane, even when his hands leave bruises and he yanks her hair. She gives him bites and scratches in return.

 

He is a different man entirely, when the tides have retreated and his mind is foggy with a post-coital haze, stroking her hair, the roots of which still sting, and kissing the marks he leaves on her skin. She is different too. She lets him be so affectionate. Like the other people she’s been with, he makes the knot less noticeable and that’s enough.

 

There comes a moment as there always is. One of the captain tried to negotiate with Vane for a higher exchange on his wares. Eleanor is not present but she can imagine the exchange: the captain waving his arms, beginning for some degree of reason as can be expected of a man like Vane.

 

From then on, she orders Mr. Scott to tell Vane she is away when he asks for her.

 

He is not pleased. Thereafter, when they meet, their words are harsh and he still leaves marks on her skin, marks of not of passion but marks meant to cause pain. Eleanor holds fast. She will not be like her mother, a slave to the whims of a man.

.

.

.

It’s not a complicated story nor is it really romantic. Eleanor is pouring over a contract, anger at the terms and conditions making her misspell words which only serves to fuel the curse words forming under her breath. She is seconds away from flipping the table when she hears someone across the room speaking in French.

 

Few people in Nassau speak the language. Most are slaves whom Eleanor rarely interacts with. Others are merchants who try and use the language to plot with one another and screw her over. Pirates and prostitutes are not prone to complicated speech let alone multilingualism. The girl’s voice is beautiful, so beautiful Eleanor finds herself shivering despite the summer heat.

 

She turns to look for the speaker. It is a prostitute sitting on the lap of a pirate whose back is to Eleanor. The girl is teasing the pirate, her green dress riding up her hips to reveal a plethora of firm, dark skin. The pirate the girl is trying to get a coin out of presses his face to the girl’s breasts. The girl turns away coyly, leaning over the pirate’s shoulder, noticing Eleanor’s gaze.

 

Eleanor turns away. The contract, which held little interest to her before, is now swimming before her eyes, each word slipping away without any retention. The hairs on Eleanor’s neck are standing up. She turns again, painfully hopeful the girl is still looking.

 

The pirate has turned to take a swig of rum from his half-pint. With her target distracted, the girl is looking again over the pirate’s shoulder. The girl’s chin drops, the light from torches nearby catching on the green of her eyes.  

 

Eleanor touches her face, unsure how to respond to this attention. The prostitute looks amused.

 

When the pirate put down the rum and turns back to the girl, the prostitute enthusiastically kisses him, mouth open, tongue obviously on his, hands feverishly touching his neck. Her eyes watch Eleanor intently, unblinking.

 

The heat from Eleanor’s cheeks spreads quickly down her abdomen and between her legs.

 

Then the pirate picks up the girl, carrying her like a bride, past Noonan to whom he flings a coin and up the stairs, leaving the girl’s eyes burned into Eleanor’s memory.

 

Three days later, Eleanor is sampling a new rum that just came in (if you can drink half the bottle and still call it sampling) when she notices the girl watching her across the room again. The girl’s eyes make a spark settle in her stomach.

 

And that, in combination with the copious amounts of alcohol rushing through her veins, is enough to make her stomp across the tavern, pluck the girl from her seat and leads her to Eleanor’s room.

 

A servant left a fire burning in the hearth. The glow from the flames casts shadows on the girl’s features, making her look even more perfect. Unexpectedly, the effects of the rum fade and the shyness Eleanor fought so hard to rid herself of returns with a vengeance. She releases the girl’s hand and turns her attention towards the design on the nightstand.

 

The girl shrugs off her overcoat and sits on Eleanor’s bed. When Eleanor does not join her, the girl reaches out to take hand again. Her fingers delicately massage Eleanor’s palm. After a moment, she whispers, “Come sit down.”

 

Eleanor obeys. The girl leans towards Eleanor, reaching out to tuck the blonde’s hair behind her ear. The makes Eleanor keenly aware of her rapidly beating heart. By the light of the fire, Eleanor can see the outline of the girl’s body.

 

“What is your name?” Eleanor asks. To her disgust, she hears her voice crack.

 

“My name is Max,” the prostitute replies, tilting her head back to expose her long graceful neck.

 

“I,” Eleanor says. Her face is flushed with embarassment. She wishes Max would make a move but the girl is silent, relaxed even, watching Eleanor. “I noticed you starring at me.” Then Eleanor winces. Those words were not even worth articulating and yet they are the most intelligent thing she can currently think to say.

 

“Yes,” Max says, laughing softly, “I watch you often but I never thought you’d notice me. I’m glad you finally did.”  

 

Eleanor swallows hard, trying desperately to embolden the words which next come from her mouth, “You gave my kiss to that pirate.”

 

Max smiles at Eleanor, “Forgive me.” Then, with the blood rushing past Eleanor’s ears so loud it sounds like thunder, Max moves closer and, soft as a breeze, presses her lips gently to Eleanor’s before pulling away after a heartbeat.

 

Without needing to think, Eleanor wraps her arms around Max, crushing her mouth against the prostitute’s so hard, their teeth knock together. The dull pain only serves to make Eleanor more fervent. She and Max tumble back onto the bed, their limbs entangled. Their hands woven together, Eleanor pulls away finally to breath. Max spread her legs so that Eleanor can settle comfortably between them. Eleanor’s excitement grows when she feels Max’s arousal.

 

Eleanor’s hand are desperately seeking Max’s bare skin but the prostitute holds Eleanor’s digits at bay. “Don’t throw oil to raise flames,” Max says, “when a slowly stoked ember is much more appropriate.”

 

“What?” Eleanor says.

 

Max shows Eleanor and at the zenith of it all, Eleanor is certain the Earth will shatter and the sky will fall.

 

After, Max dresses as Eleanor recovers on the bed, her skin still humming with the lingering effects of her orgasms. Before she leaves, Max pauses, leaning over Eleanor for a moment to smile at her one last time before kissing Eleanor’s forehead. To her own surprise, Eleanor feels herself leaning into the gesture.

 

The next night, Eleanor goes looking for Max again.

.

.

.

Max’s fingers knead the tight muscles along Eleanor’s spin. Both women are naked and Eleanor can feel Max’s wetness against her back, an interesting fact indeed. The mirror is still in the room from last time. Eleanor has found she very much enjoys watch Max at work. Eleanor is just beginning to contemplate how to go about turning Max’s attention toward the mirror when the other woman presses against a particularly sensitive patch on Eleanor’s shoulder blade.

 

“Fuck,” Eleanor says. Max stops but Eleanor quickly adds, “Cela fait du bien.”

 

The words slip from Eleanor’s mouth unintentionally. Max slaps Eleanor on the back, leaning close, “Vous parlex francais?”

 

Eleanor is silent. She doesn’t want to answer. Max knows many things about her: how ticklish her elbows are, how Eleanor likes her tea, how much she enjoys being kissed on the neck; but this is too much.

 

“My mother taught me,” Eleanor says, finally.

 

This should silence Max. It would silence others. People in Nassau, mostly men, had tried to spread rumors about Iris after she left but Eleanor had put a stop to that and now no one spoke of her mother.

 

But Max is either too young or ignorant or unconcerned with what Eleanor will do because she asks, “Your mother?”

 

She shifts, pushing Max until the other woman is prone on the mattress and Eleanor is now, straddling her back. Max, to her credit, is promptly silenced.

 

Eleanor tries to mimic the massage techniques Max was previously using but her fingers are not as nimble and it proves not to be the distraction Eleanor wants.

 

The words she wants to share are swirling about her head. After a moment, Eleanor stops her ministrations. Max turns so that Eleanor is astride her waist and they are facing each other. The other woman smiles, rubbing the crest of Eleanor’s hip.

 

“I would never tell,” Max says, entwining their finger, “Never.”

 

Eleanor believes this. She has overheard, in the tavern: Men who want to know what Eleanor Guthrie is like in bed. They would never ask Vane if they liked their necks and the other whores were ephemeralities in Eleanor’s life. Max isn’t and is therefore a curiosity. Max never says a word though.

 

“Before my Father punished her by sending her away,” Eleanor says, “She had an affair with a trader.”

 

“You loved her,” Max says, her face unreadable.

 

Eleanor can only nod, “I made Nassau for her.”

 

Max pushes the stray hairs covering Eleanor’s eyes. “I know she loved you as well.”

 

“How can you know that?” Eleanor asks.

 

“How could she not?” Max says.

 

The words are so simple on Max’s lips and it is difficult for to think they could possibly be false. The knot as loose as it has ever been, Eleanor leans down, giving Max an open mouthed kiss, feeling a blissful released when the other woman wraps her arms around her and pulls her close.

.

.

.

Max is sitting her in lap, leaning against her chest, panting to Eleanor’s smug satisfaction. Moments ago, she was bent over the side of the tub and Eleanor was behind her, giving her pleasure.

 

Even the lingering effects of orgasm cannot block the question Eleanor wants to ask. She had not seen before what she had seen that night. Blankets and darkness had not allowed her too but she has seen now. There was a mirrored constellations of bruises on Max’s inner thigh that each form an unmistakable arch. She had winced when Eleanor had touched the obvious shape. Other hurt too, some shiny and soft scars, others scabs just beginning to settle back into skin.

 

“Who hurts you?” Eleanor asks. Max had been drifting off to sleep, her head tucked under Eleanor’s chin. Her eyes open when Eleanor asks the question but she does not move away nor does she answer. After several seconds have passed, Max begins to close her eyes again, as if to pretend the question was never asked.

 

“I will have them taken out to sea, tied to an anchor, and thrown overboard,” Eleanor says, louder this time. Part of her is annoyed with Max for ignoring her but deep down, she knows there is something she can’t understand about this entire thing.

 

Max shushed her, raising her head to look Eleanor in the eyes. Sometimes, when the sun is beginning to set and they are alone with only a few stolen moments left to be had together, Max makes silly promises to Eleanor, describing her outlandish ideas like how they could steal a ship, round up some men, and be pirates together or how they should buy and island and steal off together.

 

The look she has in her eyes when she tells these fairytales to Eleanor is the same look she has in her eyes now.

 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Max says, kissing Eleanor’s knuckles.

 

The water around them is freezing. Max shivers and stands up, winking down at her paramour as she pulls herself from the tub. Eleanor admires Max’s wet form but her mind is racing. Max looks pensive as well but only for a moment. By the time she has pulled her robe around her body, she is back to her normal self.

 

The next morning, as Eleanor is writing a letter, Max comes storming through the door, pausing for a moment to knock even though she’s crossed the threshold. She stops in front of Eleanor’s desk, fidgeting as Eleanor finishes her letter. When Eleanor is done, she asks, “Was it you?”

 

Eleanor places her quill in the ink pot, lifting up the paper to read what she wrote, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Max shakes her head, “It was you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor says, blowing softly on the paper so the ink will finish drying, still avoiding Max’s eyes, “What is it you think I did?”

 

“Monsieur Noonan has informed me I will not longer be permitted to work at night. He also informed me I would be restricted from performing certain acts for clients,” Max snaps, “But you knew that didn’t you? Did you really believe I’d think that cheap bastard would just stop selling me? Shall I call you Master Guthrie now?”

 

“This displeases you?” Eleanor is more than a little shocked. People curse at and insult her all the time. She expects it, can usually predict when it’s coming. She hadn’t thought Max would have this reaction.

 

“You are buying me, Eleanor,” Max snaps. Eleanor shudders. The other customers, the ones whose names she can’t remember, are “ma cherie” to Max. But she has never called Eleanor by this term of endearment. It’s always been Eleanor. “I would rather spend a minute with you that is stolen over a night that you paid for.”

 

They’ve never spent an entire night together. Their trysts are only ever a few hours long and then Max leaves Eleanor’s bed for a stranger’s. Noonan allows these brief sojourns from Max’s work, as he had with the other prostitutes, because he’s found that he can now turn in the rent, a little late or a little short, and Eleanor will look the other way.

 

He wouldn’t sell Max to Eleanor, which was a relief in some ways but he certainly hadn’t given in to Eleanor easily. Eleanor, for her part, had had to convince herself a dozen times she was different from the pirates who bought Max’s time. Now, all her words of persuasion are vanishing.

 

Max begins to leave and for a moment, Eleanor almost lets her. Emotions are contagious and Eleanor is not interested in pain, sadness or any other human maladies. She never thought about the other prostitutes like this. She never allowed herself to see their hurt. Why does she think of Max like this? Eleanor has her own survival to think of. She cannot save the world.

 

But then Eleanor can swear someone is crushing her heart.

 

She rushes across the room, shutting the door before Max can exit through it. Max does not look her in the eye but she does not try to leave again.

 

“The money goes to Noonan but the gift is for you,” Eleanor says.

 

“What is this ‘gift’ you speak of?” Max says. Her low lips curls down, leaving her face looking ferocious.

 

“The coin is the only power Nassau recognizes. It coerces, it corrupts, it destroys but it also gives us the privilege of choice,” Eleanor says. She opens the door, “You are always welcome in my bed, Max, but I wouldn’t force you to come ever again if you do not wish to.”

 

For once, these are the exact words Eleanor wants to say. Still, Max leaves, shoulders heaving in anger over the change in circumstances.

 

Later, Eleanor brings a stack of contracts with her to bed and buries herself under her covers. She reads the same words over and over, minutes and hours slipping by. The fire dies in the hearth but she still stubbornly reads, the dim light of the moon straining her eyes. It’s still vastly preferable to conceding. Eventually the contracts go on the bedside table and Eleanor stares at the ceiling as the night passes.

 

Around midnight, she hears the door open. Max pauses by the bed, thinking Eleanor is asleep, and undresses. When Eleanor feels her lover next to her on the bed, she can’t help herself any longer. The moonlight on her face make Eleanor look sweet and Max can’t resist the urge to lean and kiss Eleanor on the cheek, noting it feels damp.

.

.

.

Like most things in life, it happens slowly.

 

The sunlight streaming through the cracks in the blinds are like a knife through Eleanor’s skull. “Rum,” Eleanor croaks.

 

“No, it is Max.” The other woman says, wringing a towel in a bowl of water and places it over Eleanor’s eyes. The water is icy from sitting out in the cold night air and Eleanor sighs in ecstasy.

 

“There is too much fucking alcohol on this island,” Eleanor mutters.

 

“It’s not the supply, Eleanor,” Max says, reaching out to rub Eleanor’s temples, “You drink too much.”

 

She actually doesn’t. Not much anymore. Eleanor used to drink herself to sleep almost every night. Now, not so much, not since Max. She only drank last night because a captain she wanted to do business with had goaded her into it.

 

Eleanor moves closer to rest her head in Max’s lap. The towel slips down Eleanor’s face and she can see Max’s jewels on the dresser and Max’s clothes in the close next to Eleanor’s and Max’s cosmetics, brushes, and hairpieces by the mirror. On Max herself, necklaces, rings, and earbobs, all of which Eleanor bought for her.

 

This is dangerous, a more instinctive part of her says, this will end badly.

 

Eleanor adjusts the towel over her eyes again. Max holds her close.

.

.

.

The first time Eleanor meets Flint, he had been shot and a teenager is sewing him back together again on a table in the tavern. Max is off with a client, much to Eleanor’s discontent, and the teenager is letting blood drip all over the floor so she pushes the youth away, dumps an entire bottle of rum on the open wound to clean it, trying not to look as delighted as she feels when Flint groans, and begins closing the wound herself.  

 

“Was this worth it?” Eleanor asks. She doesn’t understand pirates sometimes. They lose eyes, limbs, and even their lives but they still will try to rob everything with a mast.

 

“The other ship carried twenty guns and three canons,” Flint replies.

 

Eleanor finishes her work. If the injury doesn’t get infected, Flint will live. “No gold? No merchandise? Nothing of worth? You dare come before me and admit that?”

 

“I do.” Flint says, wincing as he flexes. Then he tells her why in the most illustrious of words. He will use to guns to overtake another ship, this one a small Spanish galleon, carrying gold from mines in South America. Then he offers Eleanor a third of the expected haul. Perhaps it is the planning that is so rare among pirates or the fact that few other pirates have or would even consider attempting such a dangerous feet but Eleanor scoffs.

 

“Bring me the haul first,” Eleanor says.

 

A week later, he does. Eleanor pays Noonan for half a year and signs a contract with Flint.

.

.

.

“Tell me about your voyage,” Max says.

 

She and Eleanor are laying in bed together. Eleanor has been holding tightly to her paramour, looking directly into Max’s eyes, silent and tense. It is unnerving Max.

 

Eleanor buries her face into Max’s neck, pulling the other woman so close, Max can barely breath.

 

“What did your grandfather say?” Max asks.

 

In her arms and through her chest, she can feel Eleanor’s sobs. Max is quiet as Eleanor shudders violently in her arms.

 

“What is ‘urting you, Eleanor?” Max asks when the other woman has stilled.

 

Eleanor finally tilts her head to look at Max, “He was going to sell our holdings here on Nassau and marry me to the son of a textile factory owner.”

 

Max’s hand slows as it strokes her hair but only for a split second. She smiles at Eleanor but it is so clearly false. “He is a fool. You have worked so hard -”

 

Eleanor covers Max’s mouth with her hand, “I gave him fifteen percent of my share in the company and promised him I would increase our profits at least twenty percent.”

 

Max furrows her brow, clearly desperate to ask a question but Eleanor does not move her hand.

 

“I did this,” Eleanor says, “because while I was gone I realized. . .” Her voice fades. She leans close so her mouth to close to Max’s ear, as if afraid someone will overhear and use this secret to cause her mortal harm. “I love you,” she whispers. Then she raises her voice just a bit so she can be certain Max has heard, “I love you.”

 

Eleanor pulls away, unable to meet Max’s eyes. “Don’t say anything,” Eleanor says, “I wouldn’t believe it.” Eleanor takes her hand from Max’s mouth, hesitating for a moment to make sure Max wouldn’t speak before lowering her hand completely.

 

Max is shaking her head and for a second, Eleanor’s greatest fear is realized. Max thinks of her only as a client, her words and actions only pretty necessities governed by their dealings which Eleanor has misinterpreted.

 

Or perhaps, and this is even more complicated than Eleanor knows what to do with, Max realizes Eleanor can’t really be certain which of the two really drove her to give up so much: the island or Max.

 

Then, Max’s hands snake up Eleanor’s neck, her fingers gripping Eleanor’s hair tightly, and Max is giving Eleanor her response, without even saying a word.

 

The knot begins to untangle.

.

.

.

Max makes her ultimatum. Eleanor disagrees with the choice. It should not be so complicated.

 

She does not miss her.

 

For Eleanor it was simple. Love was all well and fine but it would not keep them well on Nassau or anywhere on the Earth for that matter. Max did not realize that. Eleanor accepts this. She ensures Max is able to leave the island safely and then goes back to her business. Her instincts were right the entire time: Max would screw her.

 

There are battle strategies to formulate, guns to procure, deals to be made. She does not have time to reminisce on frivolities like girls who demand she give up everything and then turn on her once she makes the right decision. She does not allow herself them.

 

But a time comes when there is no more scheming. The Urca is won and Eleanor earns the life she wanted: the empty office, more money than she knows what to do with, and silence.

 

She settles her debts. Then she buys Nassau, every store, every home, any and every building she can get her hands on. Because she fucking can and its satisfying. Mother would be proud.

 

But she does not buy the brothel from Noonan. Not like she once planned to do.

 

She swims in the lagoon she and Mother frequented. She drinks so much and so often the pirates become almost concerned for her. She reads the books Mother left behind. She sells all her furniture and buy new pieces and then replaces those too. She finds tutors and educates herself in the subjects Mother wanted her to learn. She has dozens of clothes made for her, each more extravagant and useless on Nassau than the last. She perfects her French, because it’s something to do and it makes her feel empowered to speak the foreign words without feeling a thing. She watches her island change.

 

She takes lovers too. Only free women this time. The daughter of merchants, the wives of plantation owner, the sister of men from the trading post. Eleanor is a demanding lover. She describes to them how she wishes to be kissed, adjusts them when she finds their posture or positioning lacking, and she is never satisfied.

 

She makes a life for herself on Nassau and then tries to drown herself in it, and none of it makes the words which can’t be unheard and the action left undone any more bearable.

 

She does not miss her. Not at first.

.

.

.

After some time, the lies become too difficult to carry and when the truth comes out, it fuels a desire in Eleanor that becomes an obsession.

 

At first she sends her spies but they are more accustomed to finding delinquent account holders than prostitutes who have vanished off the face of the Earth. She is not in Kingston, Port Royal, or any of the major cities and Eleanor does not have the sway to send her people farther.

 

So she gets finds debt collectors and bounty hunters, professionals who will find anything for a price and she gives them a small fortune. They search far and wide and bring her men, women, and children who are similar to her Max but never the elusive original. She fires them immediately and quickly runs out of options in this arena.

 

In desperation, she turns to soothsayers but after only one meeting with a fortune teller, wherein the woman has Eleanor drink tea and then attempts to read the scatter leaves left on the bottom of her cup, Eleanor fires the woman and curses herself for being foolish.

 

Then, quite unexpectedly, one day her luck changes.

.

.

.

A Dutch merchant is reading his schedule to Mr. Scott while she listens, describing the hauls he imagines he will be able to bring in the hopes that it will entice them into to buying, when Eleanor notices the girl. Eleanor has seen her before, begging for a coin from anyone with a purse. Now though, the girl is sitting in a corner, tracing in the sand at her feet.

 

Except, she is not drawing. She is writing. She is writing the words the Dutchman is saying to Eleanor.

 

Eleanor calmly excuses herself, walks across the room to where the girl is writing to confirm her suspicions, and grabs a handful of the girl’s hair.

 

“I believe putting you in boat without oars and leaving you in the middle of the ocean would be a suitable response to what you are doing,” Eleanor says as the girl screeches, “I think you’ll find, that while stealing trade secrets isn’t a crime, we have justice for it here indeed.”

 

The girl tries to respond but Eleanor tightens her grip.

 

“Please!” the girl cries out, “Let me go and you’ll never see me again. I forget everything I heard I swear.”

 

Eleanor opens her mouth to respond that she will do no such thing but the words are caught in her throat. The girl has reached up to try and tug Eleanor’s fingers away from her hair. The ring the girl wears is quite distinct. In fact, it is one of the many Eleanor bought for Max.

.

.

.

“Stop it! She’s up the stairs on the right, I swear. You’re hurting me. Stop!” The girl’s screams, which were empty of pain before, have grown strained and Eleanor finally releases her shoulder.

 

“Stay here until I see her,” Eleanor says.

 

The girl rubs her shoulder, glaring at Eleanor. She does not try to flee.

 

This girl, this child sent to spy on one of Eleanor’s colleagues, was the best lead she’d had in a while. Or more to the point, it was the only lead she’d had in a very long time. Perhaps that was making her desperate. She did not care.

 

Eleanor pounds on the door the girl indicated towards. The word “Madame” has been carved into the wood. There is no response and Eleanor is preparing to knock again when the girl grabs her fist. The girl shakes her head and knocks on the door, in a strange rhythm.

 

“Vous avez un visiteur, mère,” The girl calls through the door.

 

“Maximilienne,” A familiar voice calls back, a voice which makes breathing next to impossible for Eleanor, who is growing painful hopeful, “Quand avez-vous rentrez chez vous?”

 

The door opens. It is Max, older as would be expected but the same.

 

Eleanor cannot find her words. For a moment, Max is of the same disposition, her chest heaving as she stares back at Eleanor, blinking several times as if she cannot comprehend who the woman in front of her is.

 

Max returns to herself first. She turns to Maximilienne and pulls the child into an embrace. “Welcome ‘ome. I ‘ave missed you, my love.”

 

Maximilienne hugs her mother back, tightly, still watching Eleanor, “I missed you too Mother.”

 

Max kiss the girl’s crown several times before pulling away, “William is in the kitchen. Go and ask him to make you something, yes?”

 

Maximilienne glances once more at Eleanor before nodding. Max pinches her cheek, slapping her softly on the rump as she turns away. The girl pauses at the top of the stairs, watching them for one last moment before descending slowly. When the girl’s footsteps had faded, Max finally turns to Eleanor. She nods to indicate Eleanor should follow her into the office.

 

The room is lavish, with fine leather embellishing each piece of furniture and fine works of art hanging on the wall. For a moment, Eleanor cannot believe what she is seeing. Max sits down at the big desk by the window with a sigh.

 

Eleanor shakes her head, to find her thoughts. She goes to sit across from Max. What she really wants to ask if difficult so instead she says, “She made me give her her weight in gold to bring me to you.”

 

Max chuckles, “My girl.”

 

“She is your child?” Eleanor asks.

 

“I raised her. One night, I overheard her mother trying to trade her for a jug of rum and she has been with me ever since,” Max says, shrugging, “I tried to stop her from all this dangerous work but, you know, she is stubborn like me.”

 

“Her name is Maximilienne?” Eleanor asks. She is talking now only for the sake of talking, “You named her for yourself?”

 

“It was so romantic at the time,” Max says. Her fingers are smoothing the soft leather on her desk. She is bored, “So, everyone would know she was mine.”

 

“You don’t use that name anymore,” Eleanor says. She should know. She searched a hundred islands and then some. No one knew of Max by that name anymore.

 

“I don’t,” Max responds, “I am Madame now. As a ‘omage to my past.”

 

Eleanor looks around the room, “What is it you sell here?”

 

Max shakes her head, “I sell secrets. To the Spanish. And the English. The Dutch. Anyone who can pay and has things they need to know. I do my best with what I have.”

 

They both fall silent and for a moment, Eleanor feels herself going insane.

 

“I am worthless,” Eleanor blurts.

 

“Pardon?” Max says, “Would you repeat that?”

 

“I sold all my holdings in Nassau,” Eleanor says, “I gave Mr. Scott a majority shares and I visit often but its not my island anymore. It was nothing in the end. I thought it was what my Mother would have wanted me to do but now, I can admit, I don’t know what my Mother would have wanted but I will give her the benefit of the doubt and think she would have liked seeing me happy. And you,” Eleanor shuts her eyes looking for the right phrasing, “I thought you were dead and here you are better than I could have possibly imagined and,” She feels her eyes grow wet and she can’t look at Max for a moment longer, “I am grateful. So grateful you are well.”

 

Eleanor looks at her feet. She hears Max stand up and come around the desk. When the other woman reaches out to wipe the tears from her face, Eleanor grabs Max’s wrist, kissing her hand before holding the other woman’s palm to her cheek.

 

“You were never satisfied with what we had,” Max reminds her.

 

“I was,” Eleanor retorts before adding, “You never thought into the future.”

 

“I did not have the privilege,” Max says. She pull her hand away from Eleanor and leans back against her desk.

 

She is not a girl anymore. She is a woman. They were so young then and she prays - the girl who rolled her eyes through years of masses with her mother - she prays that Max sees so too.

 

“We make our choices and we live with them,” Eleanor says, “I was wrong. I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I choose you this time,” Eleanor reaches into her bag, pulling out the document she has been carrying for years: papers outlining the sales of the businesses she owned in Nassau. She hands them to Max.  

 

Max reviews them for a moment, flipping through to read each briefly. When she is on the final page, looking at Eleanor’s signature, she says, “I do not believe in third chances.”

 

She puts the documents down. Max does not move. She waits for Eleanor to come to her, like she did the first night and Eleanor goes to her quickly.

 

.

.

.

 

“Mother?”

 

Maximilienne knocks on the door, a courtesy really, as she is already entering through the door. Max pushes through the door before her daughter can enter the room fully, blocking her from seeing in.

 

Maximilienne takes in her mother’s knotted hair and wrinkled clothes, finally asking, “Is she staying?”

 

“Yes,” her mother replies simply.

 

“For how long?”

 

“As long as she wishes,” Max says, leading her down the stairs, “Her name is Eleanor. She is a fool. I encourage you to grow accustomed to that and to her.”

 


End file.
